Of this is Day composed
by jomiddlemarch
Summary: Some days, everything goes wrong.


"Christ and the angels wept!" Sam exclaimed, her voice such an amalgamation of fierce frustration and despair that Christopher Foyle had no choice but to set aside the paperwork he'd been mentally reviewing while getting into the Wolseley and regard her with the care a crime scene engendered. Her uniform was just as it should be, every button secure, her hat at the less jaunty angle she'd been recently affecting, the burnished gold of her Victory Roll bright enough to draw any eye. But her regular inquisitive look or its most common alternative, the delighted smile she could hardly contain, were both missing.

"Sam?" he asked.

He'd learned she needed little said to unleash her. Her ebullience charmed him though he'd never say so, reminded him of some time long ago, when such exuberance had not been tempting fate.

"Sorry, sir. I thought I'd pass the time with this crossword, the morning's been nothing but a bother, every single thing I've begun just, just a terrible tangle, and I can't even solve the first, bl-, blasted clue!"

There was something more, he could hear it in her voice, the way she had barely stopped herself from uttering the obscenity but their relationship was already unusual enough that he didn't press her. She gripped the pencil tightly and her cheeks were flushed.

"Well, I certainly can't help you if you don't tell me what it says," he said mildly. The current case was a string of robberies and it felt both acceptable and fitting to steal a little time back, if he could help Sam regain her generally equable temper.

"Oh! I didn't think—I rather thought you preferred chess, sir," she said, darting a glance at him, waiting to see if stern Detective Chief Inspector Foyle would be answering her or someone less familiar, the man who had sat across from her at Carlo's, who sometimes took the cup of tea she offered with a wry look he favored instead of a smile.

"Prefer, perhaps, but I've been known to undertake the odd crossword. They're easier for the more solitary among us," he replied. He'd enjoyed the solving the puzzle when Rosalind was alive, calling out the clues and listening for her response from the kitchen or the sitting room. He knew enough not to disturb her when she was painting, but she was otherwise generally willing to be interrupted, by a question or a kiss. The memory was fleeting, the sound of her contralto voice over the snap-click of her heels on the kitchen floor, Andrew making some noise in the small back garden or with a Meccano set in his room.

"Do you mean to tell me what has you so troubled, then?" he asked. She might answer how she chose, though the Times's offering would likely prove easier to solve.

"I—oh, dear. Yes, well then, eight letters, "counted sweetest." Sir," she said.

Already, just the promise of some assistance had softened her tone, brought back something of the driver he knew, the vicar's daughter with her insatiable desire for adventure. How little help she was given, for all she gave. Perhaps not unique, not during the war, but remarkable regardless. He paused a little, to save face, where an immediate response would have embarrassed her.

"'Success,' isn't it?" he suggested and she just looked at him, longer than he'd expected. Her eyes were an unusual color, not quite hazel, but with a flash of amber to them. She was all gold, was Sam Stewart, though he'd never tell her, hardly admitted it to himself.

"You might mark it down, then, unless you think you'll remember all day. I shouldn't think we should wait any longer to head out. We don't want the thieves to forget all about us. At this rate, we'll catch them red-handed at tea discussing the cricket," he said, letting himself enjoy her surprise at his relative volubility, the smart way she nodded at him, the delicacy of her wrist in its drab wool sleeve, writing down the word that had bedeviled her so.

"Yes, Mr. Foyle. Though I wouldn't mind confiscating a sandwich, even if it's only fish-paste and beetroot," she replied.

He settled back, confident she'd spend the drive regaling him about something; she was rarely at a loss for words and he missed a woman's conversation. _She's good for you, Christopher darling_ he heard; it was Rosalind's voice but he couldn't disagree. The colors blurred through his window like a pastel, without any of the watercolor's lucent delineation he'd once preferred in another time and he thought he'd suggest the café near the station when they returned. The food was not very good but at least it was plentiful enough, the rock cakes more rock than cake but hardly an impediment to Sam's appetite. He didn't like eating alone, for all the years he'd done it, and he'd like to see her fresh face across from his, happier now though he couldn't be sure exactly why. It didn't trouble him; he was a Detective Chief Inspector and mystery suited him.


End file.
